Blind murder
by Loner Monroe
Summary: What things could happen if you've lost yourself. What's left is your desire and the violence you've always carried in your hands.


Anxiety runs through my veins so fast that it gives me a sense of flight.

I have the hammer in one hand, patient, and the other goes to the doorbell.

I arrived at the brown door of a strange house that I had seen before.

But in my dissociated state of reality I was not able to remember

The house was small. Typical of the less crowded area that I do not remember walking, or rather run, at least that way I felt that my legs had been made, as if I had run a marathon a few seconds ago. But it was cozy. With a garden with the care that I did not give to mine in years. And a tree so big and strong that it seemed, at least in my mind, to make fun of my weakness.

There was a light in the entrance lit, welcoming me, the house was not alone. The vain and empty memories of my past self, detonated by the events that are about to happen, appear in a sudden gust. Faint. Like a blink. That they align in a perfect synchronicity with my altered breathing, giving me a perfect rhythm for what I am about to do.

A woman opens the door. Strange. Delicate features, slender body and long hair. Her expression is kind and confused. She doesn't know me. And she will never do.

"Good evening," she says in a gentle, small voice. With a tone of courtesy.

Like who is behind a counter in a boring part-time job, trapped in the monotony of obligated kindness at the expense of salary.

"What do you want?" She question after a few seconds of my intruder silence.

My eyes hold her gaze, analyzing her changing expression where kindness disappears to give way to an irritated sigh. Like the mother who is tired of the restless son in the middle of the expectant public.

"Excuse me, but it's too late to listen to whatever you're going to offer." She tells me quickly, leaving behind the small tone to give way to a firmer tone as she makes an attempt to close the door.

I pause for a moment to think that this is happening terribly easier than I imagined. Even without knowing how I got here, there is no witness.

The area, although quiet was very little crowded.

The woman; It is not a problem. Live alone, clueless; she has not noticed my erratic breathing, nor my white knuckles squeezing the hammer tightly in my hand, still waiting, patiently, to release my contained anxiety.

Before she completely close the door I stop her with my free hand, which causes a fright in the woman.

I give her a crooked smile as I push the door inside.

"What are you doing!?" She screams alarmed as she recoils. I enter the house and close behind me.

"I'll call the police if you don't come out right now!" She threatens me.

I observe the environment. There is a hallway in front of the door. Two directions. The right leads to some stairs. The left to another room.

At the end of the hall there is an antique clock. Mark 11: 42. The sounds of the hands are echoed.

Vanishing Tic Tac. Nothing is heard. Just a quick breath. Mine? Or the one of that woman who kept screaming?

I approach fast with hammer in hand. A hit. A sharp cry. The blood starts to come out of her face. Her delicate features slowly lose their grace.

Her eyebrow has a wound that, in the near future will leave a purple mark of a brutal blow.

"Please! Stop! No! Please!" She starts to asking for me to stop. Holding her bleeding face in pain.

Receding as a prey to the predator. Looking to protect themselves from the next damage.

In her wobbly steps hitting the walls of the corridor she holds the silent clock. I have to assume that she looks for time to analyze which output to take.

Right or left? No hurry. No one will come to your aid.

Maybe when she bought this house she thought that the advantage of not having neighbors would be to have privacy.

Do not be disturbed. -Maybe I can listen to loud music without getting noise complaints.- she'd thought.

No one who comes to kill you on a Thursday or a Friday or the day it was, in the middle of a cold summer night, right?

Now with this she would consider it next time. But there won't be a next time.

She's decided on the left. Dropping the clock to give herself time. Broken glass breaks the silence in addition to her breathing between cut and her screams of pain.

The clock has broken and with it, time. I hurry toward her with the throbbing anxiety returning to my veins. The breathing accelerates. And the adrenaline gives me the impulse to reach her and hit her leg with the hammer stained with the blood of her face.

A scream of pain is heard with the crunch of a broken bone and the fall of an innocent victim.

She creeps slowly towards her living room. In the middle there is a table with reading books. Sofas. A small television. Portraits of faces unknown to me that will be the last memories of the bleeding girl crying for help on the floor.

Continue crawling as if wanting to get somewhere, leaving a trail of blood in her path. With the leg wound open where the hammer had entered.

I walk towards her watching her stealthily. And, finally. For the last act. hit her head. Two. Three times. I lose the account. I continue until my arms are burning at work and I stop doing it. Nothing is heard. Not a scream Not a moan of pain. Not even the sound of the hammer hitting the surface. Silence. Tranquility. There was no anxiety anymore. I already felt real.

Enough to notice the blood on the floor reaching where I was standing, the blood dripping from the hammer and covering my hands. Splashing me. A red sea covering everything in its path. Drowning me.

And that in the middle of everything that had no form. That strange mass that looked like meat mixed with sausage. Brains. Everywhere.

What had once been the face of a beautiful girl was now a strange deformation of my own creation that I did not recognize. Although I had never done it before. She was still a stranger like she was before.

Her body was the same. With the broken leg, hands with fists clenched and arms outstretched.

It looked like a body in the middle of an avenue that a truck had passed over a couple of times.

A deep sound came out of my throat as I imagined that. It was a fun thought. I smiled a little at that idea.

So that's how it would look if a woman's head were run over. Interesting. One thing to delete from my list.

What should I do now? Clear all? To call the police? Go? I do not even know how I get here. I do not even know if this is happening. Is it real? Maybe I'm real?

"There is no evidence of me, only the hammer, I will take it away, nobody will come to look for you, nobody knows who you are, nobody knows who I am."

I sit on the sofa next to de bloody corpse to think. Everythink is more colorfull now. I like that.

The decoration has change. I think the girl would have love the color of her blood. It give her livingroom more life. Her own life. My own performance was finished. And i felt in calm now. But i knew if was tomporary. The anxiety would find its way back trhough me. Like it always did. And i would feel lost again. And empty.

I took the phone on the table next to the sofa and mark three digits. 911.

One bip. Two bips. And finally. "911. What's your emergency?". The voice almost robotic answerer on the other line on the phone. A woman's voice. So used to hear tragics. Crimes. It was a job. A few words and a lot of patrols would be here.

"There's have been a murder." I simply say.


End file.
